Skin
by Exceeds Expectations
Summary: They are a growing canvas of apologies. Slight AU.


A/N: Inspired by a photo I saw somewhere that said, "Imagine a world where the words you speak appear on your skin." So I did. Thanks to my kangaroo homie for publishing for me!

X

He finds it one day, in the shower, just below his left ankle. He only notices because of the numbers thrown in, tiny, tiny numbers, and normally he wouldn't pay any attention to the words sprawled across his skin but -

"And the address is 221b Baker Street," he mutters, a half smile on his lips.

It will be good to go home.

X

When he comes back - long after the cracked and bloodied mess of his lip has healed, after the black eye has faded to yellow, after John's knuckles are no longer scraped and sore - John kisses him.

He's crying. Jaw set, angry tears stinging in his eyes. He blinks furiously, hot tears splashing onto Sherlock's coat, and growls out, "You shouldn't have left. You shouldn't ever have left."

"John - "

"Ever." A rusty, raspy croak of a voice that cuts through Sherlock, slices to the core of him.

"John, I - "

"I know," John says, and covers Sherlock's mouth with his. He kisses him until they are breathless and sweating. John's hand fumbles at Sherlock's trousers, fingers shaking, and Sherlock keens and sighs and bites his lip, and they are pulling frantically at inconvenient cloth and wool and fucking socks - who invented _socks?_ - and then Sherlock is rutting hard against John's hip, against the heat and the slick sweat and the solid warmth of John, John, _John_ -

Afterwards, boneless and awkward and cold, Sherlock makes to redress himself. John grabs him by the wrist swiftly, pulls him backwards.

"No," he says. "Stay."

Sherlock stares.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, throat dry.

John tugs again at his wrist. "Sit," he whispers. There is a warmth in his voice, and his touch, and shining in his eyes, so Sherlock sits. "Let me see," John says, and his hot hands are on Sherlock again.

There is no fire now, no burn, just the gentle thrum of John's heartbeat in his fingertips as he traces Sherlock, catalogues the script of him, searches and searches and -

He finds it eventually, twisted along the base of Sherlock's spine.

_This phonecall - it's my note._

He stares at it for a long time. Traces it with every finger, each thumb, his lips.

When he is done, he holds an arm out to Sherlock. His jaw is set again, his eye shining. Sherlock feels like a child, too long and too awkward in his own body, but he takes John's arm in careful hands. He sees it there, just above John's wrist, and knows the gist of what he's about to read before he does, but it's still a punch to the chest. He feels as if every nerve in his body has gone into shock, a frozen spike of pain shooting through him.

He exhales slowly, and meets John's kind eyes.

"I am sorry, John," he says loudly and clearly, sounding almost formal. The incongruity of his voice and this tender moment go unnoticed by John, who smiles softly.

His lips form the words, "One more miracle," but no sound escapes. Sherlock stares hard at the twist of John's mouth and does not meet his eyes.

"That was...the worst thing I have ever gone through," John says, smile fading from his mouth. His thin lips pull into a tight line and he lets out a puff of air through his nose. Sherlock stays very still. "And I've been to Afghanistan. I've been shot. I've been kidnapped by a madman, a circus, your brother... I've had a bomb strapped to my chest, witnessed countless murders and tended to mangled bodies, people mutilated beyond recognition. I've seen some - some awful things, Sherlock, and I've been through a hell of a lot, but losing you - "

John's voice cracks. His hand is shaking in Sherlock's. Sherlock isn't watching John's face anymore, because he has found, most interestingly, the words forming just along John's ribcage. As he speaks, the words fade into existence as others fade out, old and pointless words, meaningless things. The new words grow and mould and sharpen until they are deepest black, and Sherlock wonders if these ones are permanent.

John takes a shaky, watery breath.

"Losing you was a fucking nightmare," he says simply, with a huff of a laugh.

Sherlock reaches out, runs his fingers lightly across the words. John smiles again, warmly, kindly. Sherlock reaches for his wrist again, brings it to his lips, and meets John's eyes.

"I will never leave again," he mumbles, and presses a kiss to the words _don't be dead._

X

Sherlock kisses the _please god let me live_ on the scarred, twisted tissue of John's shoulder again and again and again and wonders if it will ever go away.

X

John fucks him over the kitchen table, rough, all teeth and scrapes and bruising touches. Sherlock pretends not to notices how John's nails press into the _goodbye, John_ inked onto the small of his back.

Instead, he digs his teeth into the _you machine_ on John's neck, bites the _he's my friend_ on the line of his jaw until John growls and comes with a few final, stuttered thrusts.

"Sorry," he mumbles, smoothing his careful fingers over the blossoming marks on Sherlock's hips, his back, his chest.

Sherlock says nothing, just nods. They are a growing canvas of apologies.

X

It doesn't take John long to trust him again. Sherlock feels a strange biting sensation in his chest, a thing he soon identifies as guilt. What has he done to deserve this man? His trust?

"You eating tonight or should I just go ahead and make something for myself?"

"John." Just that. Just _John_. It's all he can bring himself to say in that moment, all that he wants to confess, all that he needs to - all that he _needs_.

"Sherlock?" John is across the room in three strides and two heartbeats, his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock has closed his eyes, but he doesn't need to see to imagine the rough lines of worry carved into John's forehead, the tired creases around his eyes and the _caring_ there, the _trust_ and the sheer amount of _love_ -

"John," Sherlock says again, his voice shaking now. John's rough hand is on his cheek then, tilting his head upwards. When Sherlock opens his eyes, he sees everything he knew he would.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock says truthfully. His heart feels oddly heavy - though he knows that is ridiculous and his heart doesn't really feel anything at all. But there it is, a weight sinking in his chest, lower and lower. "I sometimes forget. You. I'm. I never meant to. You know."

"I know," John says, and he means it.

He leans down, his hand still cradling Sherlock's face, and presses his lips to the stark _John_ that has blossomed on Sherlock's bottom lip.

"I know." And he means it.

X

When John is sleeping, Sherlock reads all of him. Cover to cover, he consumes every word of John Watson's that his body has deemed important enough to stay on his skin. For now, at least.

He finds his own name seven times. Finds an _I love you_ meant for someone who might be him, but probably isn't. Finds a _you bastard_ that definitely is.

He discovers, on the swell of John's right calf, half a conversation with Molly. _I loved him_, it says. _I loved that mad bastard._ There's no telling what Molly said in return, but the next line on John's leg says _he cared about you too, you know._

Sherlock runs his hand down the length of John's calf and back. There is so much of the last two years that still covers him. So much yet to be replaced. He can read the damage he caused from John's words alone, the pain and the loneliness. Can read is own thoughtlessness, his own selfishness, in every letter. Can almost feel the hurt, the shards of broken trust, the utter _loss_.

Sherlock wants very much to erase it all.


End file.
